Chapter 130
Caleb's POV
I studied Samantha Grey as she waited for my answer, taking in every detail with the practiced assessment my father had drilled into me since childhood. Always know who you're dealing with, Lennox Martinez's voice echoed in my head. Weakness, strength, usefulness—identify them all.
My father was a smart man, no question. But every generation had to surpass the one before it—that was how dynasties survived. He'd taught me to observe, to calculate. I'd learned to do both, and then add layers he never thought of.
Like telling my sister Isabella I'd be arriving Thursday when I was actually boarding a plane Tuesday. Sure, it kept my movements hidden—classic misdirection. But it also gave me something more valuable: information. I'd see who she told, who showed up asking questions, who seemed a little too interested in my travel plans. In a world of alliances and betrayals, you could learn as much from controlled lies as from careful truths.
Samantha tried to present herself well—decent clothes, carefully styled hair, the kind of put-together appearance that took effort. But I'd grown up around real wealth, around people who wore luxury as naturally as breathing. I could spot the signs.
The way she held herself, just a bit too carefully, like someone still learning how to navigate spaces she didn't quite belong in. The slight hesitation before she spoke, as if constantly editing herself. Good breeding showed in a thousand small ways—posture, word choice, unconscious confidence. Samantha had none of it.
New money trying to pass as old, I thought. Or more likely, no money trying to pass as new.
But what really interested me was the darkness that flashed across her face when I'd mentioned Ellie Green. That wasn't about economics. That was pure, venomous jealousy—the kind that came from wanting something, almost having it, and watching someone else take it away.
Perfect.
"Caleb Martinez," I said smoothly, extending my hand. No point in hiding my name—she was human, powerless, and unlikely to connect me to anything beyond face value. "And before you ask, yes, I'm new in town. Just flew in from Barcelona."
She shook my hand briefly, her grip hesitant. "Martinez? Are you related to—"
"The Martinez family, yeah." I flashed her my most charming smile, the one that had gotten me out of countless scrapes. "My dad's pretty well-known in certain circles. Business, investments, that sort of thing."
It was true, as far as it went. The Martinez family had built a fortune over generations—real estate, tech investments, a few carefully chosen ventures that had paid off spectacularly. We were the kind of wealthy that showed up in Forbes articles and charity galas. Old money with new money savvy.
What those articles didn't mention was what lay beneath the boardrooms and investment portfolios. That Lennox Martinez wasn't just a shrewd businessman—he was Alpha of one of the most powerful packs in Europe, with connections stretching across half a dozen countries. That our "business empire" had been carefully constructed over decades to give us the resources and influence a modern pack needed to thrive.
The packs back home were real packs—dozens of wolves, structured hierarchies, territories that spanned forests and mountains. Strong enough that if humans ever tried one of their ridiculous "wolf hunts," it would be anyone's guess who'd come out on top. We didn't hide in fear. We chose discretion.
Here in America? It was pathetic, honestly. Scattered families, lone wolves trying to blend in. Three-person households at most, like they were ashamed of what they were. No wonder Jackson had ended up living with just his uncle Miles—probably easier to hide when you were weak and isolated.
My father still insisted I keep a low profile here. "Don't draw attention. Don't expose what we are. The packs prefer peace, Caleb."
Peace. How boring. But I played along. For now.
Samantha didn't need to know any of that.
I glanced around the Old Mill, and this time I didn't bother hiding my distaste. The place was a dump—literally. Crumbling brick walls covered in graffiti, shattered windows patched with cardboard, the acrid smell of rust and rotting wood thick in the air. A few beer cans littered the concrete floor, evidence of high school kids using it as a party spot. The whole structure looked ready to collapse.
"Jesus," I muttered, brushing dust off my designer jacket. "Why the hell did you pick this place?"
Samantha's cheeks flushed slightly. "It's private. No one comes here."
"Yeah, I can see why." I stood up, careful not to touch any of the questionable surfaces. My leather boots—Italian, custom-made, worth more than most people's monthly rent—were already coated in a film of grime. This was beneath me. Way beneath me.
Growing up as the Alpha's son meant certain standards. Private tutors, gated communities, cars that cost more than houses. My father had made sure I understood what it meant to be elite, to be above the common pack members. "You're not just any wolf, Caleb," he'd told me countless times. "You're the future Alpha. Act like it."
And future Alphas definitely didn't conduct business in abandoned mills that smelled like piss and decay.
"There's a coffee shop in town," I said, already walking toward the broken doorway. "Roasted Grounds. Actually has furniture that won't give you tetanus. We can talk there."
"Fine," she said. "But you better not be wasting my time."
Twenty minutes later, we were seated in a corner booth at Roasted Grounds, proper lattes in front of us. The place was clean, modern, with soft instrumental music playing through hidden speakers. Exposed brick walls—the artistic kind, not the falling-apart kind—and pendant lights that actually worked. Much better.
I took a sip of my latte and nodded approvingly. Not as good as the espresso bars in Barcelona, but acceptable for a small-town American coffee shop.
"So," I said, leaning back against the leather booth. "Tell me about Ellie Green."
The transformation was immediate. Samantha's whole body tensed, her fingers tightening around her cup. When she looked up at me, her eyes held a venom that actually impressed me.
"What about her?" she asked, voice carefully controlled.
"Everything." I set my cup down, giving her my full attention. "But let's start with why you hate her so much."
Samantha was quiet for a long moment, studying me. Trying to figure out if she could trust me, probably. Smart girl.